Echoes of Life
by V Tsuion
Summary: Each time Watson took up his pen to write out the adventures he had shared with Sherlock Holmes and why.
1. A Study in Scarlet

Like many things in Dr. John Watson's life, it all began because of Sherlock Holmes.

One day in 1886 Watson was rifling through his old notebooks where he had recorded their, by then, plentiful adventures.

"Holmes!" Watson suddenly exclaimed with a chuckle, "Take a look at this!"

The melody that had been swirling around their sitting room came to a sudden stop. Holmes frowned distastefully at the interruption, but he deigned to open his eyes and grace Watson with his unamused gaze.

His melodramatic pause went unappreciated as Watson continued, "It's our first case! I'd forgotten about this old thing, but oh, how could have I?"

Finally Watson glanced up at the still irritated Holmes. His grin fell away, and for a moment Holmes felt a twinge of guilt, but it was Watson's own fault for interrupting him with such sentimental nonsense. Holmes was about to say as much.

"You don't have to look so disappointed," Watson said, "It was our first case, that's something worth remembering! And quite the case it was too…" he flipped through a few of the pages, letting the memories flood his mind.

"Routine," Holmes scoffed, but Watson ignored it, already consumed by his reading.

Holmes turned on his heel, putting his back to Watson, and pointedly returned to his music with a much louder and sharper tune.

"You know-" Watson spoke suddenly, interrupting his concentration once more.

"What?" Holmes asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I was just thinking that it- our first case would make quite the novel." Watson replied, obviously offended.

Holmes lowered his violin and turned to face him with a scowl, "A novel for what? You're no author."

"I suppose I could try and write it up…" Watson said, taken aback.

"And get it published in The Strand too, I take it. Maybe it'll even get famous. You could talk to that friend of your's- Doyle about it, between his fairies and your novels you'd be a perfect pair."

With that, Holmes made his way upstairs in search of some peace and quiet.


	2. Sign of the Four

Mary was out, visiting friends if her husband recalled correctly. Honestly, Dr. John Watson was glad for it. He was not out visiting Sherlock Holmes, that he could promise her, but there was something he still needed to do. He swore he was not going behind her back in any way, it was just something personal, something he needed to get out.

Watson sat in his study scribbling madly upon sheet after sheet of paper. His handwriting was barely legible in places, but he could not stop, not until it was done. A notebook lay open on the table behind the pages of manuscript. Every so often, he glanced up at it, to remind himself of various details that only served to make the memories clearer. He could see the scene in his mind's eye, he could feel everything as if he were there and then.

Holmes had made his choice - not Watson - and so Watson had made a choice of his own - his lovely _wife_, Mary - that was all there was to it. He loved Mary, he really did. She was wonderful, and deserved so much more than to be neglected for an old detective who quite clearly was happier on his own.

His pen dug into the page. He felt the paper give before he heard it tear.

Watson lifted his pen and let out a sigh. The hole itself was of no consequence, it was the thoughts behind it that mattered.

He had seen Holmes. He could not honestly say that the detective was happier for his absence. But he had made his decision, as unfortunate as it was for all involved. He loved Mary, he truly did. Meeting her had been a miracle in so many ways - a God-send, one could even say. But it had also been a disaster that was all his fault. There was only one thing he could do. He had taken his vows and made his promises. Holmes understood, didn't he?

Holmes' understanding or none, he owed this to Mary - though this particular exercise was more for himself than anything else. He had chosen his wife, as he ought, and it was only fitting to put it to words. It was ironic really. He didn't quite know what had driven him so far- had made him so desperate to leave Holmes that he had decided to get _married_, as much as he did love Mary. But he could not deny that Holmes' response to his magnum opus had been a factor.

And why wouldn't he be desperate to leave Holmes after that? It had been a _compliment_, the highest compliment he could offer. After seven years, one would think… But this was Sherlock Holmes, he could never just take a compliment. It had to be the right sort of compliment, and even then, he was rubbish at accepting them-

But this wasn't about Holmes! The whole point of this exercise was that it was no longer about Holmes. Sure, the story focused on the detective, it was a mystery. But there was a reason that he had chosen _this_ mystery. There were others, maybe even hundreds of others, but Sign of the Four was Mary's.

It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. No more Holmes and Watson, going on "adventures" and solving mysteries. It was John and Mary living a perfectly normal life, together. It was all he had ever wanted, a peaceful, normal life with a lovely wife, children, everything anyone ever wanted, really - everyone but Holmes, and now, maybe himself.

But it was time he grew up and stopped abandoning his beloved Mary to romp around the city and chase crooks like overgrown boys on the school yard playing a life-sized game of cops and robbers. And so he put his pen to paper with a sense of finality.


	3. Adventures and Memoirs

Sherlock Holmes was dead. The thought echoed around Watson's otherwise empty mind. It had swept everything else away and left him an empty shell, aching and numb. Holmes was _dead_, dead and gone and it was all his fault! If only he hadn't abandoned him there on the path, if only he had been there to save him!

Why had he left Holmes at the falls? He should have known it was a trick! Even if it wasn't, he should have been there! But instead he abandoned Holmes. And this wasn't the first time he had abandoned Holmes, just the last. He abandoned him now just as he had two years prior. Why had he chosen Mary? Why had he abandoned Holmes and left him to die?

But now it was too late for Watson to make it- anything up to him.

Thanks to him, even the public's last image of the brilliant man had been Watson leaving him for a wife, declaring that he had chosen Mary over Holmes. They were left with the image of a heartless man left alone to his seven-percent solution. That was not the send-off Holmes deserved! He was worth so much more than that.

Holmes was dead, and he wasn't coming back. But there was something that Watson could do…

He flung himself to his feet and nearly ran to where he kept his old notebooks. There had been other cases, tens - at the very least - that showed more of Holmes than Watson's fevered ramblings in "Sign of the Four" ever could! He grabbed as many journals as he could carry and lay them out upon his desk in the study.

Now where to start, where to start? He flipped through the pages, beautiful old memories crashed through his mind, pulling him this way and that. But it was all gone… Still! He had to do this for Holmes, one last thing! He clung to the old stories for his life.

He could not bring himself to write Holmes' death, and even if he could that tragedy was not a good account of his life. No, he had to start where he had left off, show Holmes' grace to a friend that had betrayed him so.

_A Scandal in Bohemia_, he etched the words across the top of the page and tore through his journals until he found the proper entry. Of course. It was one of the few stories where Holmes had been bested, but it was by a worthy opponent, how rare was it that Holmes encountered such a beast? Yes, this was a story worthy of Holmes' reintroduction to the British public.

And now that Holmes was back in the public eye, the possibilities were endless! Every story had to be something unique, something that showed how Holmes was so extraordinary - Watson had to show them the Holmes that _he_ saw.

_The Red Headed League, A Case of Identity, The Boscombe Valley Mystery, The Five Orange Pips, The Man with the Twisted Lip, _the memories flowed forth from his pen - thank God Mary was willing to go for ink with such frequency. Every one was an extraordinary adventure; _The Blue Carbuncle, The Speckled Band, The Engineer's Thumb, The Noble Bachelor, The Beryl Coronet, The Copper Beeches_.

The life that he once led unfolded before him. The joys and the tragedies, every glimpse of Holmes that he was graced with, even though he did not know how lucky he had been. It was all there so long as he never stopped writing! He published more than there were months in the year and there were so many more to come!

_Silver Blaze, The Yellow Face, The Stock-Broker's Clerk, The Gloria Scott, The Musgrave Ritual, The Reigate Puzzle, The Crooked Man, The Resident Patient, The Greek Interpreter, The Naval Treaty…_

Before he knew it, nearly three years had passed.

His wife died and he had barely seen her live.

The stories had been everything to him, all consuming, but still time went on. Holmes had been dead three years and writing wouldn't bring him back.

Watson's old journals tempted him, bursting with memories of his life with Sherlock Holmes - his old life. But there was only one memory truly left to write. His mind blanched at the very thought, but this was something he had to do. Holmes was dead, buried beneath the falls. It was time he lay his dear old friend to rest at last.

And with that he put his pen to paper one last time:

_The Final Problem_


	4. Hound of the Baskervilles

It was a dismal, grey morning in 1901. The London fog hung close around the windows, obscuring one's view of anything more than a few feet away from their face. There were few people about, and those who braved the streets bustled to and fro, spending as little time out of doors as they could.

But inside 221B Baker street, it was comfortable and cheerily lit. The two occupants were in the sitting room. Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair by the fireplace, lost in thought. Dr. John Watson lay upon the devian, in theory reading. In practice, he spent more time glancing up to examine the familiar room, thoroughly unable to focus.

"Holmes," he finally spoke.

The detective gave a noncommittal reply.

There was a moment's pause as Watson realized he hadn't the slightest idea what he had intended to say.

"Yes?" Holmes asked, suddenly snapping back to reality.

"A bit of a delay there," Watson teased, "I fear you're losing your edge."

Holmes waved it off, "My apologies," he said sarcastically, "I was contemplating the nature of the universe."

Watson let out a laugh, "Of course, and it's the sun that revolves around the Earth, yes?"

"It would be all the same to everyone if it did."

"Perhaps…" Watson replied with a smile.

There was a pause as Holmes examined him, before saying, "You're obviously bored out of your mind - I can't deny I'm a little insulted you only turned to conversation out of desperation -" he teased, "Why aren't you working on those delightful stories of yours?"

"So you can critique them?" Watson replied sarcastically, "No, we've already been through that."

"What about those twenty-three short stories? Adventures and Memoirs - if I recall."

"Those would be your fault," Watson said drily.

Holmes sighed, "And I can't apologize to you enough for that. But I did appreciate them, I read every single one in my absence, and I must admit that I did enjoy them, for all the grief I gave you about 'A Study in Scarlet' - was it?"

"Surely, you jest?" Watson said, his disbelief half-joking and half-genuine.

"Not in the slightest," Holmes said in utmost seriousness, "Though I have picked up a few jokes along the way, none of them particularly good, but jokes nonetheless…"

Watson laughed, "No, I'm quite alright. Perhaps I could write up another one of our adventures... There is that fantastic case Mr. Baskerville was kind enough to share with us."

"A bit romantic for my tastes," Holmes said with a slight frown, though his expression soon lightened, "But if anyone could do it justice, I believe you would be the man for the job. And it did have its points of interest…"

"That it did." Watson replied emphatically, "Though, I must say, I remember you gave me quite the fright."

"If you have me apologize any more, I doubt you'll be able to recognize me."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about that; sorry or not, I doubt there is anyone in the world you could be mistaken for."


	5. The Return of Sherlock Holmes

Watson was thoroughly surprised by how well Holmes took to retirement. He had expected him to become frustrated within weeks, if not days, and forsake it all together in a matter of months. But to Watson's relief, partial retirement, at least, suited Holmes well.

At the moment, Holmes was out tending his beehives, making notes about the colony. He seemed quite taken with his work and Watson did enjoy hearing him talk about it with such energy. Of course, there was the occasional case, the detective could not retire entirely, but he was far from suffering due to the lessened load.

Initially, Watson had been too preoccupied with his attempts to keep Holmes from boredom to worry about much else. Once he discovered that wasn't a problem, he happily turned to a comfortable and peaceful existence. At first, it had been relaxing, wonderful, really. But as the weeks turned into months, he found himself wondering if he could really spend all his life doing so little, only interrupted by the occasional case.

Watson sat in the living room, staring out the window into the cheery day, contemplating what to do with himself. Holmes was busy with the bees. They had already walked down to the shore and spent some time traversing the neighboring woods. But the day and only just begun and he found himself at a loss as to what to do next. He had no plans and no preoccupations. All he had left was to look forwards to dinner - the next thing he had planned - and by then the day would be as good as over, wasted really.

But it wasn't just about that day. He suddenly felt like he understood Holmes' perennial frustration at a lack of stimulation. He did enjoy his leisure, but a time came when enough was enough. Living from case to case was not an enjoyable way to live, especially when the cases were few and far between.

Holmes had his beekeeping, Watson needed an occupation of his own. He could go back into practice, but that was a long term solution, not an immediate one. What to do? What to do...?

He could write. The idea struck him suddenly, but the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Other than the Baskerville case, he had not written in years. The public did not even know that Holmes was in fact alive and was not in a watery grave at Reichenbach.

Doyle had shown him some of the mail he had received from fans protesting Holmes' death. Watson had found it heartening but futile at the time. But now it occurred to him, perhaps he could give them their wish and share with them a bit of the joy he had felt upon Holmes' seeming return from the dead.

And there were other cases too, a hundred-some of them, he could surely find a fair few to share with the public. It would be a worthy preoccupation indeed, a good use of his time in retirement. Perhaps he could even get Holmes to write up a few of the cases he had not been able to assist him with.

There were a limited number of cases, but by the time he was ready to stop, perhaps he could start a practice. Until then, there were more than enough for a long while. It was time for Sherlock Holmes to return from the dead.


End file.
